Читать книгу Sacrament - Clive Barker, Clive Barker - Страница 24

The soul who had taken the name of Jacob Steep stood on the threshold of the Courthouse, and clung to the frame of the door. Dusk was always a time of weakness for both himself and Mrs McGee. This dusk was no exception. His innards convulsed, his limbs trembled, his temples throbbed. The very sight of the dimming sky, though it was tonight most picturesque, made an infant of him.

It was the same story at dawn. They were both at these hours overtaken with such fatigue it was all they could do to stand upright. Indeed tonight it had proved impossible for Rosa. She had retreated into the Courthouse and was lying down, moaning, calling for him once in a while. He did not go to her. He stayed at the door, and waited for a sign.

That was the paradox of this hour: that when he was most unmanned was when he was most likely to hear a call to duty, his assassin’s heart roused, his assassin’s blood surging. And tonight, he was eager for news. They had languished here long enough. It was time to move on. But first he needed a destination, a dispatch, and that meant facing the sickening spectacle of twilight.

He did not know why this hour was so distressing to their systems, but it was one more proof – if he needed it – that they were not of ordinary stock. In the depths of the night, when the human world was asleep, and dreaming its narrow dreams, he was bright and blithe as a child, his body tireless. He could do his worst at that hour, quicker than the quickest executioner with his knife, or better still with his hands, taking lives away. And by day, in countries where the noon heat was crucifying, he was just as tireless. Death’s perfect agent, sudden and swift. Day, in truth, suited him better than night, because by day he had the proper light by which to make his drawings, and both as a maker of pictures and a maker of corpses he liked to pay close attention to the details. The sweep of a feather, the slope of a snout; the timbre of a sob, the tang of a puke. It was all worthy of his study.

But whether light or dark had hold of the world, he had the energy of a man a tenth his age. It was only in the grey time that the weakness consumed him, and he found himself clinging to something solid to keep himself standing. He hated the sensation, but he refused to moan. Such complaints were for women and children, not for soldiers. That was not to say he hadn’t heard soldiers moan in his time; he had. He’d lived long enough to have known many wars, large and small and though he had never sought out a battlefield, his work had by chance brought him to a place of combat more than once. He had seen how men responded to their agonies, when they were beset. How they wept, how they called for mercy and their mothers.

Jacob had no interest in mercy; neither in its dispensing nor its receiving. He was set against the sentimental world as any pure force must be, entertaining neither kindness nor cruelty in his dealings. He scorned the comfort of prayer, and the distractions of fancy; he mocked grief, he mocked hope. He mocked despair also. The only quality he revered was patience, bought with the knowledge that all things pass. The sun would drop out of sight soon enough, and the weakness in his limbs melt into strength. All he had to do was wait.

From inside, the sound of motion. And then, Rosa’s sighing voice: ‘I’ve been remembering,’ she said.

‘You have not,’ he told her. Sometimes the pains of this hour made her delirious.

‘I have. I swear,’ she said. ‘An island comes to mind. Do you remember an island? With wide, white shores? No trees. I’ve looked for trees and there are none. Oh…’ Her words became groans again, and the groans turned into sobs. ‘Oh, I would die now, gladly.’

‘No, you wouldn’t.’

‘Come and comfort me.’

‘I have no wish—’

‘You must, Jacob. Oh…oh, Lord in heaven…why do we suffer so?’

Much as he wanted to stay out of her range, her sobs were too poignant to be ignored. He turned his back on the dying day, and strode down the corridor to the Courtroom itself. Mrs McGee was lying on the ground in the midst of her veils. She had lit a host of candles around her, as though their light might ameliorate the cruelty of the hour.

‘Lie with me,’ she said, looking up at him.

‘It will do us no good.’

‘We may get a child.’

‘And that will do us no good, either,’ he replied, ‘as well you know.’

Then lie with me for the comfort of it,’ she said, her gaze fond. ‘It is such agony to be separated from you, Jacob.’

‘I’m here,’ he said, curbing his former harshness.

‘Not close enough,’ she said with a tiny smile.

He walked towards her. Stood at her feet.

‘Still…not close enough,’ she said to him. ‘I feel so weak, Jacob.’

‘It will pass. You know it will.’

‘At times like this I know nothing,’ she said, ‘except how much I need you.’ She reached down and plucked at her skirt, watching his face all the while. ‘With me,’ she murmured. ‘In me.’

He made no reply. ‘Are you too weak, Jacob?’ she said, still pulling up her skirt. ‘Is the mystery too much for you?’

‘It’s no mystery,’ he replied. ‘Not after all these years.’

Now she smiled, and tugged the skirt to the middle of her thighs. She had fine legs; solid, meaty legs, her skin pearly in the candlelight. Sighing, she slipped her hand beneath her dress, and fingered herself, her hips rising to meet her touch.

‘It’s deep, love,’ she said. ‘And dark. And all wet for you.’ She pulled her skirt up to her waist. ‘Look,’ she said. She had spread herself, to give him a look at her. ‘Don’t tell me that isn’t a pretty thing. A perfect little cunny, that.’ Her gaze went from his face to his groin. ‘And you like the look of it, and don’t you pretend you don’t.’

She was right, of course. As soon as she’d started to raise her skirt his dunderheaded member had started to swell, demanding its due. As if his limbs weren’t weak enough, without having to lose blood to its ambition.

‘I’m tight, Mr Steep.’

‘I’m sure you are.’

‘Like a virgin on her wedding night I am. Look, I can barely fit my littlest finger in there. You’ll have to do me some violence, I suspect.’

She knew what effect this kind of talk had upon him. A little shudder of anticipation passed through him, and he proceeded to take off his coat.

‘Unbutton yourself,’ Mrs McGee said, her voice bruised. ‘Let me see what you have there.’

He cast his coat away and fumbled with the buttons of his mud-spattered trousers. She watched him, smiling, as he brought his member out.

‘Oh now look at that,’ she said, not unappreciatively. ‘I think it wants a dip in my cunny.’

‘It wants more than a dip.’

‘Does it indeed?’

He knelt between her legs, and, reaching out, removed her hand from her sex, to give himself better sight of it. Then he stared.

‘What are you thinking?’ she said.

He fingered her for a moment, then ran his moistened digit down to her arse. ‘I’m thinking…’ he said, ‘…that I’d rather have this today.’

‘Oh would you?’

He pressed his finger in a little way. She squirmed. ‘Let me put it here,’ he said. ‘Just the head.’

There are no children to be had that way,’ she said.

‘I don’t care,’ he replied. ‘It’s what I want.’

‘Well, I don’t,’ she replied.

He smiled at her. ‘Rosa—’ he said softly ‘—you could not deny me.’

He slipped his hands beneath her knees and hoisted them up. ‘We should give up all hope of children,’ he said, staring at the dark bud between her buttocks. They have always come to nothing.’ She made no reply. ‘Are you listening, love?’ He glanced up at her face. She wore a sorrowful expression.

‘No more children?’ she said.

He spat in his hand, and slickened his prick. Spat again, more copiously, and slickened her arse.

‘No more children,’ he said, drawing her closer to him. ‘It’s a waste of your affections, smothering love on a thing that hasn’t even got the wit to love you back.’

This was the truth of the matter: that though they had together made children numbering in the many dozens, he had for her sake taken them from her in the moment of their delivery and put them out of their misery, if the cretins ever knew misery. He would dutifully come back when he’d disassembled them and disposed of the pieces, always with the same grim news. That though they were fine to look at, their skulls contained only bloody fluid. Not even a rough sketch of a brain; nothing.

He pushed his prick into her. ‘It’s better this way,’ he said.

She let out a little sob. He couldn’t tell whether it was out of sorrow or pleasure, and at that moment didn’t really care. He pressed against the warmth of her muscle, his prick utterly enveloped. Oh, it was good.

‘No…children…then…’ Mrs McGee gasped.

‘No children.’

‘Not ever?’

‘Not ever.’

She reached up and took hold of his shirt, pulling him down towards her.

‘Kiss,’ she said.

‘Be careful what you ask for—’

‘Kiss,’ she said again, raising her face towards his.

He didn’t deny her. He pressed his lips against hers, and let her tongue, which was nimble, dart between his aching teeth. His mouth was always drier than hers. His parched gums and throat drank deep, and murmuring his gratitude against her lips, he pressed hard into her, their hold on one another suddenly frantic. Her hands went to his throat, then to his face, then to his backside, pushing him deeper, while his fingers pulled at her buttons to gain access to her breasts.

‘Who are you?’ she said to him.

‘Anyone,’ he gasped.

‘Who?’

‘Pieter, Martin, Laurent, Paolo—’

‘Laurent. I liked Laurent.’

‘He’s here.’

‘Who else?’

‘I forget all the names,’ Jacob confessed.

Rosa brought her hands back up to his face, and caught tight hold of it. ‘Remember for me,’ she said to him.

There was a carpenter called Bernard—’

‘Oh yes. He was very rough with me.’

‘And Darlington—’

‘—the draper. Very tender.’ She laughed. ‘Didn’t one of them wrap me up in silk?’

‘Did he?’

‘And poured cream in my lap. You could be him. Whoever he was.’

‘We have no cream.’

‘And no silk. Think of something else.’

‘I could be Jacob,’ he said.

‘You could. I suppose,’ she said, ‘but it’s not as much fun. Think of someone else.’

There was Josiah. And Michael. And Stewart. And Roberto—’ She moved her body to the rhythm of his litany. So many men, whose names and professions he’d borrowed to excite her, wrapping himself in their reputations for an hour or a day; seldom longer. ‘I used to like this game,’ he said.

‘But not any more?’

‘If we knew what we were…’

‘Hush now.’

‘…maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘Not as long as we’re together. As long as you’re inside me.’

They were knitted now, so tightly wound around each other, limbs and kisses intertwined, they would never be separated.

She started to sob again, the breath pushed out of her with every thrust. Names were still coming to her lips, but they were fragments only, pieces of pieces—

‘Sil…Be…Han…’

She was lost to sensation; lost to his prick, to his lips. For his part, he had given up words entirely. Just his breath, expelled into her mouth as though he were resurrecting her. His eyes were open, but he no longer saw her face, nor the candles that shook around them. There were instead vague forms, particles of light and dark, pulsing before him; dark above, light below.

The sight brought a moan from him. ‘What is it?’ Rosa said.

‘I…don’t…know,’ he replied. It pained him to have this sight before him and not understand what he was seeing, like a fragment of music to which he could put no name, though the notes went round and round his head. But for all the anguish it caused him, he would not have had it taken away. There was something in the sight that quickened a secret place; a place he never spoke of, not even to Rosa. It was too tender, that place; too frail.

‘Jacob?’

‘Yes…?’

He looked down at her, and the phantom evaporated.

‘Are we done so soon?’

Her hand went between her legs, and took hold of his prick. Half its length was still inside her, but it was rapidly softening. He tried to push it back in, but it simply concertinaed against the tightness of her arse, and after a couple of dispiriting attempts he withdrew. She stared at him rancorously.

‘Is that it?’ she said.

He put his prick away, and got to his feet. ‘For now,’ he said.

‘Oh am I to be fucked in instalments then?’ she said, pulling her skirts down over her pudenda and sitting up. ‘I give you my arse against my better judgment and you don’t even have the decency to finish.’

‘I was distracted,’ he said, picking up his coat and putting it on.

‘By what?’

‘I don’t know exactly,’ Jacob snapped. ‘Lord, woman, it was just a fuck. There’ll be others.’

‘I don’t think so,’ she replied sniffily.

‘Oh?’

I think it’s high time we let one another alone. If we’re not out to make children, then what’s the use of it? Huh?’

He stared hard at her. ‘You mean this?’

‘Yes, I do. Most certainly. I mean it.’

‘You realize what you’re saying?’

‘Indeed I do.’

‘You’ll regret it.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘You’ll be weeping for want of a fuck.’

‘You think I’m that desperate for your ministrations?’ she said. ‘Lord, how you deceive yourself. I play along with you, Jacob. I pretend to be aroused, but I have no desire for you.’

That’s not so,’ he said.

She heard the hurt in his voice, and was astonished. It was rare, and like all rarities, valuable. Pretending not to notice, she went to her battered leather satchel and pulled out her mirror, and squatting beside the candles for better light, studied her reflection. ‘It is so,’ she said, after a little time. ‘Whatever was between us is dying, Jacob. If I loved you once, I forgot how. And frankly I don’t much care to be reminded.’

‘Very well,’ he said. She caught his image in the glass; saw the look of distress that crossed his face. Rarer than rare, that look.

‘As you say,’ she murmured.

‘I think…’

‘Yes?’

‘I…I would like to be alone for a while…’

‘Here?’

‘If you don’t mind.’

He flicked his fingers together, and a feather of flame leapt from them, extinguishing itself above his head. She did not care to watch him exercise this peculiar gift of his. She had her own skills, picked up, as Steep’s had been picked up, like jokes or rashes, somewhere along the way. Let him have the room to brood, she thought.

‘Will you be hungry later?’ she asked him, sounding (much to her perverse delight) like a parody of a wife.

‘I doubt it.’

‘I have a meat-pie, if you want something.’

‘Yes?’ he said.

‘We can still be civil, can’t we?’ she said.

He let another flame go from his fingertips. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Maybe.’

With that, she left him to his musings.